


Gods We Never Knew

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Mythology - Freeform, Post SBURB
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 10:11:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1546976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based off of the fic 'Gods That We Once Knew'. This is an Alpha Kid rendition. If you haven't read that fic, I suggest you do!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gods We Never Knew

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Gods That We Once Knew](https://archiveofourown.org/works/449083) by [natcat5](https://archiveofourown.org/users/natcat5/pseuds/natcat5). 



In a galaxy, in a universe, in a small corner of space insignificant, unimportant, forgettable, there is a planet. Like all planets, all worlds, it has history. History, a past, a place from whence it was born. A story to its birth. A myth. A legend. A creation theory. A religion.

Gods.

 

_/tell me everything that happened, tell me everything you saw/_

 

Once upon a time there was nothing.

Then there was a girl.

No one knew where she came from but she was a god so no one questioned it. There was no one, then there was someone. Nothing, then something.

 But its not how she came to be thats important.

Its who she was.

 

_/they had lights inside their eyes/_

 

The story goes like this.

Once there was a girl with life in her touch, says the legend. And the pictures and murals and storybooks show her eyes as bright as the sky she gave life to and a dress in all the rich shades of brown and green, much like that of the earth she walks. But sometimes she is drawn in red. Red like blood and red like fire and eyes as black at void, her terrified face cracked like a porcelain doll.

She came for a purpose, they say. She didn't create the world, no, she saved it, for the planet had been long dead until she gave it life. She nurtured the ground and helped the sky blossom. She gave another chance to a planet that may have mattered long ago, but didn't anymore. To a planet that may have once had gods like her, buy didn't anymore 

She is sometimes called The Giver, for she gave life to dust. She is sometimes called The Harlequin, for many believe she was only a puppet; a chess piece in a much larger game, saving only this world for the one who controlled her. Most, however, called her the Maid of Life.

She is the goddess who tended to the earth and returned it from death.

She is drawn and painted and written as beautiful, with skin as smooth as water and the color of fine sand. They say she has hair black at midnight, short so the days may be long. She has wide eyes, full of wonder and a mischievous glint.

There is a a large mural of the Maid in the town square.

A middle aged man stands at her feet and smiles sadly. 

_I wish she never had to grow up like this,_ he said. _She was only a child._

No one is around to hear him.

 

_/they make me feel I'm falling down/_

 

Once there was a boy who gave his heart to the world, the legend says. Sometimes his eyes are painted orange. Orange like the fire that no one can see in him but burns anyway. Orange like the anger he has always held but had never shown. Other times they are gold. Gold like the sun or gold like wheat or gold like they say his heart must be. His hair was often gold as well. Gold and straight like a noble. A prince. Other times it is white as snow or white as nothing and spiked like the shards of a heart that surely couldn't be broken.

His heart, the legend says, is what keeps us from hate.

The beat of his heart keeps keeps us from losing ours.

His is informally called The Lover, but what most don't realize is that he loved at such a cost, for the one he loved never trusted in the heart he so desperately tried to give them. He is also called The Painter, for he gives his color to the world and leaves himself with nothing. Thats why he's so pale, they say. So colorless. He is the Prince of Heart. Valiant and noble. Unyielding. With far too much sorrow for one to carry. But he was a god. No one questions it.

He is the Builder of Life. Not in the same way as the Maid built our world. He builds us. Our souls. Our bodies. Our traits. He gives us his heart so that we may be happy.

He gave far too much. He gave us his heart and color and happiness and left himself empty.

He is never shown smiling.

A young man stands in front of a painting. He folds his sunglasses and sighs. _They always told you who you should be,_  the man says. _That was never you._

He is ignored.

 

_/was there one you saw too clearly, did they seem to real to you/_

 

Once there was a girl with darkness as her shadow. She wasn't darkness. No, she was far from it. She was a Stealer of Darkness. A Thief of Sin. A Rogue of Void. 

She stole all the darkness and sin from the world and hid it away inside herself. 

She took away the fear from others and hid it in her eyes, rendering herself broken.

She was a charitable god, they say. She loved to give what she had, even if that wasn't much. But she was a god. She had the world at her fingertips, there can't be anything she doesn't have.

She is depicted with eyes as pink as the sky on a warm evening and a dress as dark as death, woven from the nightmares of mortals and hidden only for her eyes forever. They say she had seen a thousand deaths before godhood.

Is there even a point before godhood? others ask.

They cannot answer.

When she is shown with a drink in hand, her hair is flat and smooth as the wine she drinks and it is white, almost clear. Clear as the tears no one can see being shed.

They say in her later years as a god, she gave up the drink, even though others argue it never could have affected a god. When she is shown this way, her hair is as gold as virtue and curled like the waves of the sea.

No matter where you see her though, her mouth is smiling. You cannot say the same for her eyes.

A woman, hair bleached with a steadily increasing age, stands at the foot of her temple. She had wine in hand, a recent habit picked up in spite of the daughter long lost.

_You only ever took other peoples problems,_  she mutters sadly. _You never dealt with yours._

_My_ _fault_ , she slurs, her mascara leaving tracks down her grieving face.

She is drunk and disregarded. 

 

_/did you touch them, did you hold them/_

 

Once there was a boy with hope in his eyes. He had eyes as green a emeralds or green as grass or green as the moss he treads. His hair was brown like the soil and swept with wind. They say he had all of the elements within. He was a kind god, yes, but naive. Clueless, if you will. This put him in the middle of the conflict that some say surfaced between the gods. He was a messenger, carrying words for the others without a hint of notion as to what they meant.

Some say he was a cowardly god. In many murals or paintings or statues, he is crying. He was lost and confused, but always hopeful. He was hopeful that he would understand, and hopeful that he would do right, and hopeful that the gods would all exist in harmony once more.

They say he didn't understand anyone. He didn't understand why the Prince would give his heart, or why the Maid would sustain life, or why the Rogue would hide the darkness. Because he was so naive, he was never unhappy. He had no worries; no cares. Many think he was a conceited god, thinking only for himself, but he was only a hopeful fool, spreading his hope across the world his companion created.

He is often called The Messenger. Or The Weeping Boy. Most commonly, however, he is called the Page of Hope, traveling across the seas and skies to bring hope to others.

An aging woman pets the dog at her feet as she gazes at the stained glass.

_He was only a boy,_ she whispered _. He is still only a child._

She is ignored.

 

_/they moved forward, my heart died/_

 

A man stands alone in his kitchen. He breathes in the scent of vanilla cake. _It was her favorite_ , he thinks idly

_/they were kids that I once knew/_

A young man splashes cold water on his face and looks at his reflection. _If_ _only I could see you now_ , he mutters.

_/they were kids that I once knew/_

A woman throws her glass against a wall and chokes on a sob as she watches it shatter. _I'm_ _sorry_ , she screams.

_/now they're all dead hearts to you/_

An old woman stands alone on an island _. It feels so empty,_ she whispers.

_/now they're all dead hearts to you/_

 

 


End file.
